Where now these mingled ruins lie
A temple once to Bacchus rose,
Beneath whose roof, aspiring high,
Full many a guest forgot his woes.
No more this dome, by tempests torn,
Affords a social safe retreat;
But ravens here, with eye forlorn,...
The grandeur of this earthly round,
Where Theon would forever be,
Is but a name, is but a sound—
Mere emptiness and vanity.
Give me the stars, give me the skies,
Give me the heaven’s remotest sphere,
Above these gloomy scenes to rise...
Thou, born to sip the lake or spring,
Or quaff the waters of the stream,
Why hither come, on vagrant wing?
Does Bacchus tempting seem,—
Did he for you this glass prepare?
Will I admit you to a share?
Did storms harass or foes perplex...
in a branch of willow hid
Sings the evening Caty-did:
From the lofty-locust bough
Feeding on a drop of dew,
In her suit of green arrayed
Hear her singing in the shade—
Caty-did, Caty-did, Caty-did!
While upon a leaf you tread,...
His soul extracted from the public sink,
For discord born he splasht around his ink;
In scandal foremost, as by scandal fed,
He hourly rakes the ashes of the dead.
Secure from him no traveller walks the streets,
His malice sees a foe in all he meets;...
On scent of game from town to town he flew,
The soldier’s curse pursued him on his way;
Care in his eye, and anguish on his brow,
He seemed a sea-hawk watching for his prey.
With soothing words the widow’s mite he gained,
With piercing glance...
Where now these mingled ruins lie
A temple once to Bacchus rose,
Beneath whose roof, aspiring high,
Full many a guest forgot his woes.
No more this dome, by tempests torn,
Affords a social safe retreat;
But ravens here, with eye forlorn,...
The man that joins in life’s career
And hopes to find some comfort here,
To rise above this earthly mass,—
The only way ’s to drink his glass.
But still, on this uncertain stage
Where hopes and fears the soul engage,
And while, amid the joyous...
Death in this tomb his weary bones hath laid,
Sick of dominion o’er the human kind;
Behold what devastations he hath made,
Survey the millions by his arm confined.
“Six thousand years has sovereign sway been mine,
None but myself can real glory claim;...
In spite of all the learned have said,
I still my old opinion keep;
The posture that we give the dead
Points out the soul’s eternal sleep.
Not so the ancients of these lands;—
The Indian, when from life released,
Again is seated with his...
